A Lesson in Dirt
by WinJennster
Summary: John Winchester's lessons were important...but sometimes they were brutal. And Dean's about to find that out.
1. Chapter 1

_There was a thing going around tumblr about Dean digging himself out of his grave and it devolved into a discussion of how John probably made him practice. It spawned a fic. This will be short, and there's more Cooking with Gas coming, don't worry._

* * *

Dean never saw it coming.

One minute, he was leaving a salt and burn with his dad, job well done, the next minute he was on his back, staring at the night sky six feet above him.

"Dad?" he called out, blinking in confusion. The back of his head hurt, he must have smacked it on something when he fell. He's weaponless, he's dizzy, almost like being drunk, there's no response from John, and Dean realizes he's laying in an open grave. His heart quickens, and he's suddenly freaked, and wants to get the hell out of the hole.

The first shovel-full of dirt rains down on him, and he really starts freaking out. Dean scrambles to get to his feet, but the dirt is coming faster, and he's disoriented, probably from hitting his head, and he's having quite a bit of difficulty getting to his feet.

"Dad! Dad, help me!" he screams. There's no answer, just a never ending flow of dirt.

Dean's in a full blown panic, his breath ragged and frantic, fingers clawing at the dirt walls. He can't get his legs to cooperate, he can't get to his feet, _holy fuck_, he thinks, _I'm being buried alive! Where the fuck is Dad?!_

His legs are almost fully covered, dirt over his chest, and he _cannot get up. _It's a sickening feeling, when the realization that he's been drugged hits him. That's why he can barely move. They've given him some sort of sedative.

_Holy shit, if I'm drugged and in a hole, what the hell happened to Dad?_

Dean's heart is pounding, he's going to have a friggin' panic attack, then John Winchester's head appears over the edge of the pit.

"Dad! Dad, you're alright? Get me out of here, please, Dad, get me out of here!"

John's face is unreadable.

"We'll start with just dirt, Dean, but next time, you'll be in a box. This is important, and you need to be able to get yourself out of situations like this, son. I won't always be around to help you. Cover your face with your shirt. The drug will wear off shortly, then start digging yourself out."

"What? Dad, get me out of here!"

John's face is hard and grim. "Cover your face, Dean, this is your last chance." John holds another shovel-full of dirt over the hole.

"Dad! Dad, please don't do this, please don't do this! Dad I can't do this, Dad please, please!"

John hefts the shovel, and Dean only has a second before he's yanking his shirt up over his face and the dirt is falling over his head.

He does his best to calm down, as the dirt continues to drop onto his body. The cloth over his face is growing damp with what he quickly realizes are tears. Sound slowly falls away, dropping off into muffled thumps, then even that is gone.

It's silence in the hole. Total, dead silence, and unrelenting darkness.

Panic rises in him again, and he's overwhelmed with the need to _get out_. His lungs stutter, he's finding it nearly impossible to breathe, even though the rational part of his brain knows there's still air pockets in the dirt.

He's starting to regain movement in his legs, and Dean starts clawing frantically at the dirt. He's got to get out. He has to get out.

Forcing his arms upward, he grabs into the soil, trying to pull himself up. If he can get on his feet, he can push out of the dirt, he can climb out.

In theory, it should work.

But the panic is building, his heart is pounding so hard. Dean's fighting for every breath, his lungs are burning.

The terrified part of his brain is warring with the rational side, the side that keeps telling him to calm down and dig himself out. The terrified side of his brain is chiming in with a frantic stream of _getoutgetougetoutgetout_ and Dean's gasping, desperate for air, but he can't get a breath, and if he wasn't already in total blackness, then he would be now, and he passes out.

* * *

He's being dragged out of the darkness, a firm grip on his shoulder, and he's tossed to the ground, wheezing, desperately trying to get air into his starved lungs.

Dean rolls onto his back and blinks in the bright early morning sunlight.

"You were down there all night, and I still had to come in and get you."

The disappointment is evident in John's voice. Dean tried so hard, every time he regained consciousness, he fought for the surface until the panic and lack of oxygen knocked him out again.

John's hauling him roughly to his feet, and shoving him in the direction of the Impala. Dean's knees give out, and he collapses.

"Get up, Dean. We need to get back to the motel. Sam needs to go to school."

Dean shakily pulls himself to his feet, and stumbles the last few yards to the Impala, gratefully dropping into the passenger seat.

John says nothing to him on the way back to the motel, but Dean can feel the disappointment radiating off of him.

Sam's up when they get back, dressed and ready for school, but he takes one look at Dean, and his eyes widen.

"Holy shit, you're a mess! What the hell happened?"

"Nothing. Your brother is fine, he just needs a shower. Get to school, Sam."

Sam's face grows stormy, and he looks like he wants to argue.

"It's ok, Sammy. Go ahead and go. Don't want to miss first period, right?" Dean voice is quiet and raspy, strained from the night spent underground.

"You sure you're ok, Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Go."

Sam still has that look on his face, the one that usually means an argument, but he grabs his stuff and goes, turning one last time at the door to look at Dean.

"See you guys later," he mutters, on his way out, shutting the door behind him.

"Get a shower. Get some sleep. We will be trying this again, and as many times as it takes, until you can get your ass out of the dirt. This stuff is important Dean."

John storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and Dean hears the Impala start a moment later.

Slowly pulling off his dirt stained clothes, crumbs of soil falling from his hair with his every movement, Dean can't help how hard his dirty, bloodied hands are shaking.

He makes it as far as the bathroom floor before he collapses, and the dam breaks, a sob ripping from his ragged throat.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time it happens, Dean wakes up underground, already under a heavy blanket of dirt, heart accelerating madly as he becomes aware of his surroundings.

There's fabric wrapped around his head. He guesses he should be grateful John took the time to at least do that much for him. Dean wills his heart to slow down, and does his damn best to calm himself, taking the deepest breaths possible.

He will not freak out this time. He will not allow himself the luxury of a meltdown.

Slowly, methodically, Dean begins scratching at the layers of dirt above him.

He'll work himself into a sitting position, then slowly but surely get to his feet, and yank himself out of the dirt.

Maybe if he's triumphant, John will stop this "exercise".

Dean loses track of time, aware of nothing but the feel of moving the dirt. It's harder then he imagined, getting into a sitting position, and he labors for some time before he realizes he's getting nowhere and the panic starts to nip at the edges of his thought process.

He's sweating profusely and can feel the dirt turning to mud along his bare skin. It's in his shirt, his pants, everywhere. There's a tickle on his neck, he can only assume it's some sort of insect, and the idea makes him shudder. It's just another thought to shove to the back of his mind, into the locked place he's desperately trying to keep his panic in.

Another long stretch of time clawing at the dirt, his movements becoming less coordinated as he uses up the air pocket. He's almost upright, his efforts finally rewarding him, when he realizes he barely has any oxygen left. He knows he needs to calm down, conserve the little he does have, but his heart has other ideas, and starts pounding, like it wants to beat right out of his chest.

Dean swallows a half-formed sob, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. This isn't fair! What kind of father does this to his child?

The panic is settling in full-force now, there's no avoiding it or pushing it away and stars spark across his eyes, the only thing he can see in the dark.

He can't breathe. He can't suck in a decent breath. His lungs are on fire.

And it sucks, because he is so _close_. He's on his feet, and he's over six feet tall, so he can't be that far from the surface, but Dean cannot _breathe_, he's suffocating, he's dying, and his father will be so damn disappointed, and Sammy, oh my god, Sammy, he won't understand, he'll be so heartbroken…

It's the last thought that races through Dean's mind, even as he feels his hand break the surface, and an even darker blackness then the unbreakable blackness of the grave swallows him.

* * *

He comes around propped up against a tree.

John is sitting nearby, about a foot down in the grave, digging, shovelfuls of dirt adding to the growing mound next to the hole.

Dean swallows, fear like a cold grip around his heart. John's going to make him do it again. He failed and John said he would do it as many times as necessary until Dean got it.

He wants to cry, he wants to sob, he wants to yank that shovel out of John's grasp and smash his father's head with it.

"I had to pull you out. You were close, but not close enough. You're lucky you didn't suffocate. There's water, drink it, and then we're going to do this again. Understand?"

Dean can't speak, but he nods his assent, and drains the bottle of water.

The day is hot for April, the air is sticky and heavy. He thinks it's about noon by the position of the sun. He's filthy, can feel the crumbs of soil in his jeans, even in his boxers, sticking to the sweaty skin of his ass.

It's taking everything he has not to burst into tears, but the terror of disappointing John scares him more than being underground again.

John buries him twice more, and Dean manages to get himself out fully on the last try. He lays on the ground, panting, heart pounding out of his chest, but he's triumphant, and he grins up at John from where he's laying on the ground, recovering, but John just nods, his only acknowledgement of Dean's success.

"Fill the hole. Do it quickly, it's late, and Sam will be needing dinner." He stalks off to the Impala, leaving Dean to clean up the mess.

It's well after five when they get back to the motel, and Sam again freaks when he sees his dirt covered brother.

"What the hell?" he shrieks.

"Your brother's just dirty from training. Calm down, Sam."

Dean notices John doesn't share the type of "training" they were doing, and looking to avoid an argument, he grabs a change of clothes and heads for the shower.

At least it's over now, and he's been successful, so hopefully this so-called training is over and they can move on to something else.

Dinner is a quiet affair, spaghetti and a salad for Sam, and Dean can feel the tension in the room. He knows Sam is stewing, and wants to start something, but Dean's definitely starting to feel the exhaustion settling in his bones, and he really just wants a peaceful evening.

"So what kind of training was it?" Sam asks John antagonistically, fire in his tone, and Dean's heart sinks.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy, I'm fine."

"It's Sam. And what kind of training leaves you shaking and covered in dirt? Or did you think I didn't notice?"

Dean ducks his head, cheeks flaming with shame. Sam is glaring pointedly at John, who ignores him.

"I'll be back later. Finish your homework and get to bed, Sam." John gives him no opportunity to argue, just slams the door on the way out. A moment later, the Impala roars to life, then the sound fades into the distance.

Dean is still staring at his plate, hoping Sam will let the issue drop. He's tired, exhausted, and all he wants to do is crawl into bed.

"Please talk to me, Dean," Sam implores softly. "You're scaring me."

"I'm tired Sammy. I just want to go to bed." Dean pushes away from the table, his dinner mostly untouched, and crosses the room, crawling wearily into bed and pulling the covers over his head. He hears Sam sigh loudly, clearly annoyed, but Dean stays under the blanket.

He doesn't want Sam to see the tears that are dripping onto his pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

_Second to last Chapter..._

* * *

He wakes up in the very bottom of another grave.

His hands are bound behind him, cold metal of handcuffs biting into his aching wrists. His legs won't move, something is holding them tightly bound together, Dean thinks it might be duct tape.

Dean wants to scream, but there's duct tape wrapped around his head, firmly sealing his mouth shut and the only noise he can make are muffled sounds in his throat. He thrashes frantically, desperately trying to free himself.

John's head appears over the side of the hole, an unreadable look on his face. Dean is crying, terrified, because he knows there is no way he can get out of this one. Sure, he can pick a set of cuffs, no problem, but not when they are behind his back. Not when his hands are sinking into the mud he's laying on.

"You have to understand. After you mother died, I did the best I could. I tried to raise you boys right." John is pacing back and forth at the very edge of the bottom of the grave. "Sammy turned out fine, smart, bright, he'll be a credit to the Winchester name. But you Dean, well you're just a mess. You're worthless, you're stupid, you can't do anything right. It'll be better this way, you know? Sure, Sam will miss you, but he'll be a better hunter without you around. Harder. Smarter. Deadlier. You're too nice to him. You coddle him. I need him tough. You mother him too much."

John stops, and Dean can hear the rough scrape of the shovel. The first load of dirt crashes onto his legs a moment later.

"You were always a disappointment, Dean. You were never the son I needed, or even wanted. You're a burden, a dead weight around my neck. Sam and I will be better off with you gone." He tosses in another shovelful of dirt, a satisfied grin on his face. "Goodbye Dean."

Dean screams, screams with everything in him, but there's only the muffled sounds in his throat as he frantically tries to free himself. This can't be happening! Surely his father doesn't hate him this much?

But the dirt is growing deeper, it's almost over his face, he's still futilely screaming and thrashing, and this is it.

He's going to die.

* * *

"DEAN!"

Sammy's voice. Sammy. Is he here? Did he find him in time?

"Dean, wake up, come on man, wake up!"

Dean opens his eyes, finds his brother's hazel ones staring back at him.

He's not in a field somewhere, he's not in an open grave, he's in a motel room.

It was just a dream.

He's in his brother's arms, Sam shaking him awake. His whole body is trembling, and he's having a difficult time shaking the nightmare.

"What the hell is going on with you? You were screaming, you kept saying "Dad, no, please". What is that all about?"

"Just a nightmare, Sammy." Dean shifts out his brother's grasp and pulls himself out of the bed, heading for the bathroom. He can feel Sam's Class A Bitchface radiating through the closed door.

That was one hell of a nightmare. It had felt so real, and Dean was definitely shaken. Turning on the tap, he splashes cold water on his face.

What is he going to tell Sam? His brother is already suspicious of the so-called training Dad's been doing with Dean. He already knows there is more to it than meets the eye. Sam wants more, Sam wants answers, and Sam's aggressive enough to not let it go until he gets what he wants.

He can't hide in the bathroom anymore, and he heads back to the main room, crawling into his bed without looking at Sam, rolling away to face the door. His watch says it's only 3:30 in the morning, maybe Sam will get the idea.

Sam doesn't. He does something he hasn't done in years and crawls into Dean's bed, laying with his chest close to Dean's back.

"Talk to me," he whispers in the dark, rubbing Dean's back soothingly. "Please. You think I don't notice? You think I don't see how you look when Dad brings you back from these "training" sessions? You're always covered in dirt, and you're shaking, and your eyes look weird, like you've seen something horrible. Is he hitting you? Is he hurting you?"

"God, S-Sam," Dean stutters, "it's nothing like that, I swear. It's like Dad said, it's just training, it's just really intense and I feel a little worn out afterwards. But we're done now, it's over and I'm fine and it's fine, I swear. I swear it, Sammy."

Sam huffs irritably. "You know what?" he grouses, as he yanks himself out of bed and drops back into his own, "you are amazing. You can lie like a politician to a victim's family, smooth as silk, hell you could sell refrigerators to an Eskimo, but you know what, Dean? You can't lie to me. You've never been able to lie to me. I can see right through you, I can see right through this. For all of your swearing that everything is fine, and nothing's wrong, I can see right through it."

Dean says nothing, just rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

"I'm going to find out what you and Dad are doing. Because whatever it is, it's hurting you and I can't deal with that." Sam rolls away from Dean, angrily yanking the covers up and over his shoulders.

They don't say anything else, and Dean knows Sam isn't asleep either. He knows Sam is still awake when dawn rises on the horizon, orangey pink light filtering through the grungy motel curtains.

There are no words exchanged over cereal, no friendly _see you laters_ as Sam leaves for school. Dean feels off for the majority of the morning. He lets in Dad in sometime after nine, and he's bending over, looking for something edible in the fridge, when the black hood is slipped down over his head, and he feels the prick of a syringe in his neck.

Dean's last thought as he loses consciousness is _not again_.


	4. Chapter 4

"No no no no no no no! No please, god no! Help me! Somebody help me!"

Dean beat his fists against the hard surface above him. He'd woken up like this, confused and trapped in total blackness.

As far as he could tell, he was in a coffin.

God. John had done it. He'd put his son in a box and buried him in the ground. His father had officially lost his mind. What if he left him here? What if he never came back?

A fresh wave of terror swept over Dean, along with a wash of total helplessness, and he couldn't stop the sobs that burbled out of his throat.

"Dad…please. Please come back. Come back, please, please, somebody help me…" His sobs grew more intense, and he continued beating on the lid of the coffin. Someone had to hear him, someone had to let him out.

God, what if that dream…what if it wasn't far from the truth? What if John really did want him gone and this was it? Maybe this was what he deserved, maybe if he'd tried harder, been a better hunter, but he'd done the best he could…hadn't he?

_Oh god I'm going to die. I am going to die. Sam will never know, oh god, he'll never know. Dad will tell him some story and he'll look for me, but eventually he'll give up. Oh Sammy. I'm so sorry. I shoulda tried harder, I shoulda been a better son, a better brother. This is all my fault._

Exhausted, he dropped his hands. If this was it, then he'd be a man about it. He could at least go out with some dignity, even if he couldn't stop the flow of tears on his cheeks.

He'd failed them somewhere. There can't be any other explanation. Somewhere along the line, he fucked up enough that Dad decided it was time for him to go.

It's stuffy in the coffin, and time really has no meaning. His watch is gone, but at least he still has his amulet. He plays with it in the dark, wondering idly how long it will take for him to suffocate. Dean knows the air will run out long before dehydration or starvation sets in.

He dozes for a while, dreams about driving the Impala down an old dirt road, Led Zeppelin playing in the background, his beloved _Ramble On_ twisting itself through his brain. Funny though, he doesn't remember all that weird scratching in the song. Tape must be screwed up.

A second later he's blinded by intense sunlight and hands on him, yanking him, pulling at him, and Dean swats at them, growling, "leave me alone!" and trying desperately to fight back.

"It's me, dammit Dean, calm down!"

Dean blinks, and his vision clears. Sam is staring down at him, he's lying in the grass, an open grave nearby.

"Sammy?"

"Thank god. I was so scared I wasn't going to find you in time." Sam sank to his knees, running a dirty hand through his mop of hair.

"How…how did you find me?"

Sam sighs, dropping from his knees to his ass in the grass. "I followed Dad. I skipped school and I followed you guys. Damn glad I did too! He could've killed you! He's not even here!"

Dean looked around. He didn't recognize the area, it didn't look like the same place as the previous burials. "It's just training, Sam. He was gonna come back and get me."

"Yeah? Tell that to your shaking hands. Or the tears still running down your cheeks! Dammit, why the hell didn't you tell me? This isn't training, it's torture, it's abuse!"

"Sammy…"

"No, Dean, this is not acceptable. He brought you out here, drugged and unconscious, and I watched him carry you into the woods, then he came back half an hour later completely alone! I've walked around here for three hours trying to find the spot, but damn, he hid you good! I've been so freaked out, I was so scared Dean, dammit, I was so scared!" Sam's voice cracks on the last word, turning into a sob, and then he's crying hard, messy tears and snot, and Dean pulls himself to a sitting position next to him and pulls Sam into his arms.

"It's ok, Sammy, I'm ok. It's ok."

"No, Dean, it's not ok. This is not ok. How long until his "training" really hurts you? I can't…I can't sit by and watch this, Dean. It's not ok." Sam sniffled. "There's something you should know, Dean."

"What?"

"I'm leaving. Soon. I got accepted to Stanford on a full ride, and I'm leaving."

Dean sighs. "I know."

"You know?"

"I saw the letter. I know. It's ok Sam. Just, Dad's going to spaz."

"Like I care." Sam rocked back and forth a few times, wiping his eyes and just breathing. Dean kept one arm wrapped around him, offering what comfort he can, but his heart is pounding. He knew Sam had the letter from Stanford, but since he hadn't told him yet, he'd foolishly hoped that meant Sam wasn't going to accept the offer.

He should have known better, that Sam was just waiting for the right opportunity. And Sam would be an idiot not to take it.

God, he was getting out. Sam was getting out.

"Come with me."

Dean startles. "What?"

Sam turns to him, determination in hazel eyes, "Come with me."

"Sammy…"

"No, come with me! We'll get a place together, we can both get jobs, I can go to school. You can get out too! You could go to school! Start at Community College after you get your GED, you're really smart Dean, you could do anything, just please, come with me. Please."

"I can't…"

"Yes you can! You can't stay with Dad, how long until he kills you? This," he indicates the grave site with a wave of his hand, "is beyond fucked up! He has no limits and he's going to push you and push you and keep sending you into situations you can't handle, and one day, it's going to be too much, and he's going to get you killed! I can't live with that Dean! Come with me, get out now while you still can. Please, Dean, please."

Dean says nothing, just pulls himself to his feet, extends a hand for Sam. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

Sam huffs. "So that's it then."

"I have to stay, Sam. He needs me."

"And what about me? Maybe I need you too."

"You'll be ok, Sammy. You'll make friends, you'll do great, and I'll come visit when I can…"

"Don't fucking strain yourself." He takes off, his strides hard and angry, and Dean's shoulders slump.

He's losing them both. When Dad comes back and finds out he didn't dig himself out…and Sam's so angry.

Dean's never going to win, he'll always be trapped between them, the bridge between Sam and Dad.

With a heavy sigh, Dean starts to make his way out of the woods, turning back one last time to the open grave.

For one crazy, insane moment, he wishes he was still underground.

* * *

_And that's a wrap. Thanks for reading, sorry it took me so long to finish it. I've not been very good at answering reviews, because I am so insanely busy right now with moving, kid's school, and other stuff (why the hell did I sign up for two big bangs?!) but I do appreciate every last one. You guys are the best, and I love writing, and I love it even more when you guys love it! Hugs and smoochies, pie for all!_


End file.
